Stealth
by Kilrez
Summary: The terrible effects of the ducklings attempting to be sneaky. Complete and utter madness. Run whilst you still can.


**Stealth**

Cameron entered the diagnostics lounge and looked carefully around before sidling up to the whiteboard. Foreman and Chase looked up from their usual between-case occupations of waiting-for-something-interesting-to-happen. Breaking a long-held taboo, Cameron picked up a sacred marker and squeaked 'weight loss' across the board in neat, curly script.

'Where's House?' asked Chase curiously.

'In the cafeteria with Wilson,' replied Cameron, looking at them both expectantly.

'Raised temperature,' offered Foreman after a moment; 'he's always wearing an extra layer.'

Cameron added it on the board whilst Chase blinked at Foreman, before catching on.

'Uh, probably sleep disturbance,' he added. Cameron paused a moment. 'How can you tell?' she questioned him.

Chase shrugged. 'Because he's bloody cranky.'

Foreman let out a small snort. 'Oh, that's new,' he commented sarcastically. Cameron added it on the list anyway.

Nervously, Chase glanced at the door. 'You sure he's in the cafeteria?'

'I was just there,' Cameron snipped. 'This isn't enough to make a diagnosis on,' she sighed, reading down the short list.

'There's nothing else definitive without testing,' Foreman stated.

'And what's the likely-hood of testing?' chipped in Chase glumly.

Cameron had to agree. She carefully erased the three symptoms and replaced everything as it had been before going to sort the mail. All three of them watched slyly as House entered his office a short while later, wearing a heavy fleece-lined jacket. He didn't appear to notice them, and they relaxed.

**oo00OO00oo**

'Raised metabolism?' offered Chase, taking a sip of his beer. It was early in the evening yet, and the mood between the three of them was still somber. It probably would remain so this evening. Just become slightly more inebriated.

'What from?' challenged Foreman.

'Dunno,' replied Chase. ''s just three symptoms he'd have if he was ticking over faster than usual.'

'Taking his pulse would help to confirm that,' offered Cameron.

'You want to take his pulse?' asked Foreman derisively. Cameron scowled slightly but didn't answer.

'Maybe if we call in the humane society. Borrow a pair of really thick gloves and a ten-foot pole.'

'Reckon you'd still lose a finger or two.'

'If you were lucky.'

They all sighed. Chase ordered another round of drinks.

**oo00OO00oo**

'We could just confront him,' suggested Cameron, out of the blue as she took blood from their unconscious patient.

'What would that achieve?' replied Chase cynically.

'Well he might admit he's sick,' she said defensively.

'Hah,' was all Foreman said.

Cameron frowned, carefully withdrawing the needle and handing it to Chase as she put pressure on the wound. 'And we're really making progress as it is.' Her voice was laced with sarcasm.

There was a slightly defeated silence as they made their way to the lab to start tests. Finally Chase said; 'Why don't we just start treatment?'

'Uh… because we don't know what to treat for?' Foreman pointed out, as though talking to a simpleton.

'And because he'd kill us?' added Cameron.

'He doesn't have to know. And we just narrow it down to all the possible causes of weight loss, temperature, and sleep disturbance.'

'Oh, that easy is it? Good luck. I'll be in bed. Asleep.'

Chase looked up from the perusal of a microscopic slide. Foreman returned his stare without flinching.

'Look, if he won't admit he's sick, it's his own fault if he dies.'

'Your dedication to duty is touching,' Chase told him sarcastically.

'Foreman, we can't just let him deteriorate,' was Cameron's contribution.

'Why not? I'm sure he'll notice and get treatment eventually.'

Cameron sighed. 'And do you think that will be before or after it's too late?'

Foreman rolled his eyes and gave a heavy sigh of his own. 'Did you go to drama school or something? Fine, I'll help. But for the record, I think you're both unbalanced.'

That night they worked late, even Foreman, who wasn't rostered on. By the morning, they'd narrowed down four likely etiologies and corresponding treatments. Cameron had also fallen asleep on the table in the lounge. Chase sloped off to the on-call room. Grumpily, Foreman went to check on their official patient.

**oo00OO00oo**

'You've lost weight, House,' Wilson commented thoughtfully. There was a cereal bowl in his hand, and he was staring musingly out at the view from their shared balcony.

House was leaning on the railing, similarly looking at nothing much. There was a very light snow falling and their breath made white clouds in the frigid air. 'Thanks,' he replied.

'New diet?'

'Yeah, I'm only eating the brown M&Ms. There's less food coloring.'

Wilson let out a small snort, taking another spoonful of cornflakes. 'You know your team's trying to diagnose you with some horrible disease.'

This actually made House crack a smile. 'They're hardly being subtle about it. Cameron tried to slip Atrofenodicloromax into my coffee this morning.'

Wilson raised his eyebrows. 'Tell me you didn't drink it.'

'Quite tangy,' commented House.

'House!'

'Jimmy, I like severe constipation as much as the next person, but I didn't think it would run too well with the Vicodin.'

Wilson relaxed again. 'Are you going to set them straight?' he asked curiously.

'Think I'll wait a bit. It's hilarious watching them pull desperate all-nighters over the fact that I wore an extra jumper on a below-freezing day and have made some attempt to battle my paunch.'

'You never had a paunch,' Wilson told him bemusedly.

House flicked a hand at him and fluttered his eye-lashes. 'Aw, thanks Darleen. That means a lot to me.'

Wilson rolled his eyes and put his empty bowl down, resting his elbows on the wall.

'Fifty bucks they'll slip you something you don't catch.'

'You're on,' replied House, grinning wickedly.

Wilson just shook his head in bemusement. 'Just don't come crying to me when all your fingers fall off from mixing meds.'

House winked at him and limped inside. Wilson chuckled to himself as, through the window, the ducklings hurriedly erased something off the whiteboard. They really were clueless.

The End

nb: Edited to take note of Zabrak Prophet's helpful review


End file.
